


Napoleon Solo's First Time

by Barcardivodka



Series: Illya's Harem [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/pseuds/Barcardivodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hurt while on a mission, Napoleon is forced to recuperate in the care of Illya's elderly neighbours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Napoleon Solo's First Time

**Author's Note:**

> As always, with many thanks to my wonderful beta - Jay

Lobelia Owino wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. She had a custom of rapping knuckles – hard – with a wooden spoon, her speed and accuracy belying her advancing years. Napoleon was aware of this of course. He had encountered the wrong end of Lobelia’s wooden spoon many times before. But he just couldn’t seem to stop himself from trying to outfox her.

He rubbed at his sore knuckles after an unsuccessful attempt at stealing a cooling fairy cake. He glared unrepentantly into the face of the disapproving woman, quite certain that she truly did have eyes in the back of her head.

“Stop your thievery, Napoleon,” she scolded, her Jamaican lilt softening her tone. She waggled the felonious spoon to emphasis her warning. “They still need to be iced. You can have one later. If you behaviour yourself.”

With anyone other than this coven of old crones he found himself held hostage with, he would have turned on the smooth charm and easy smile. Charismatic words would have flowed from his silver-tongue to get what he wanted.

But these women, that Peril was so endeared with, easily saw through Napoleon’s masks, they seem to have an innate ability to see through his deceitful and insincere words. It left him feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable.

He had the ability to make people see what he wanted them to see. To divert their attention as quick, light fingers took what they want. To put them so at ease that they inadvertently let secrets slip from between their lips. No one ever questioned the mask that he hid behind to achieve his objective, because they were completely unaware that he wore one. He had spent so long hiding his true self that even he didn’t know who he was anymore. But these old women knew. They could see him so clearly that it was bordering on terrifying.

But they didn’t turn him away, they didn’t banish him. Just as they had with Peril, they took him into their hearts and their homes without any qualms, even knowing him to be a thief and a charmer. They put up with his antics, scolding him as if he were a naughty child, but then taking the sting from the rebuke with gestures of kindness. Like he was no more to them than an errant toddler. 

Napoleon understood now why Peril had worn that bemused, almost haunted look for weeks after moving into the top floor flat.

“My ribs hurt,” he stated, completely surprising himself.  _ Where the hell had that come from? _ It was a true statement, but Napoleon couldn’t believe he had openly admitted to the fact without some measure of torture being applied. He looked at Lobelia in surprised horror.

“I know sweetie,” Lobelia replied with a kind smile. “Why don’t you go and sit on the sofa? It will be far more comfortable than that dinning chair.” The ever present wooden spoon was now benignly employed in mixing together the icing for the two dozen fairy cakes that rested on cooling trays in front of him.

They were just out of easy reach and his aching ribs had slowed his usual swift movements. He glanced up at Lobelia. The mixing bowl was tucked into the crook of her left arm, the wooden spoon in her right hand, folding the mixture. He calculated the odds of being able to snatch a cake with the spoon otherwise engaged. Even if he failed yet again, he would at least have some icing to lick from his abused knuckles. He let out a defeated sigh as Lobelia moved the cooling trays further from his reach.

“Go and sit on the sofa,” she chuckled.

“It hurts to move,” Solo confessed quietly.

“And yet you still try and steal a cake?” She questioned.

“I’m hungry,” he replied. He tried the puppy dog eyes look that always seemed to work for Peril. With all the cake he was fed Napoleon was surprised Peril hadn’t doubled in size. All that rage he carried inside must burn off all the extra calories, Napoleon reasoned to himself.

He watched suspiciously as Lobelia put down the mixing bowl, the wooden spoon left safely within its confines.

“Come on,” she urged as she moved to his side and gently placed a hand beneath his cashmere clad elbow. “It will only hurt for a moment and you’ll be far more comfortable once you’re settled. Then I’ll get you some lunch and you can have a cake for afters,” she bribed.

“Two cakes,” Napoleon bargained as he pushed himself to his feet, failing to fully hide the grimace as his ribs flared red-hot with pain. Lobelia’s firm grip on his elbow was a welcomed aid. He stiffly made his way to the haven of the sofa, Lobelia with him every step of the way.

She was strong for a woman in her seventies. Napoleon didn’t know much about her, but Peril trusted her and all the women in the block of flats that he lived in with an unquestioning faith that he had previously only ever given to Napoleon and Gaby.

Napoleon knew Lobelia was from Jamaica. Her pride in her country could rival Peril’s. Her flat was adorned with colourful trinkets and other reminders from her birthplace. He also knew that she had been uprooted from her beloved home by her sons who came to Britain in the early fifties. She was also a superb cook and Napoleon had joined her in her kitchen a time or two to learn authentic Jamaican recipes. Gaby and Peril had been eager taste-testing guinea pigs.

This was, however, Napoleon’s first time at being under the women’s care. He’d been banished from HQ due to breaking several ribs in an alteration with a brute that liked to kill by bear hug. Thankfully Peril had shot dead the offensive giant before broken ribs were pushed into delicate internal organs.

After three days in hospital Napoleon had liberated himself, only to be quickly tracked down by the Russian bloodhound and unrepentantly delivered to a furious Waverly. It had ended rather badly for Napoleon.  He was given an ultimatum; back to the hospital or surrender himself to the care of Peril’s harem of old biddies. The old hags it seemed were held in high regard with Waverly, having fed Peril enough eye of newt or whatever it was that they brewed in their cauldron to make the Russian rest and tend to his injuries properly.

Only, it hadn’t been that bad. In fact, it had been curiously comforting to be fussed over by so many grandmotherly figures. The discomfort he’d felt at them being able to see behind his obvious ruses and schemes to try and distance and protect himself from a world that hadn’t altogether been very kind to him had slowly started to fade.

He was starting to understand why Peril was so obedient in the company of these women. They didn’t care who or what you were. They had borne witness to Peril’s terrible temper and had not judged him harshly.

They didn’t seem to mind Napoleon stealing watches and bracelets from their wrists, only to return them with a flourish worthy of any showman. Rather disconcertingly the women seemed to view such a skill as nothing more than a magic trick, their faces lighting up with pleasure and praising him for his cleverness. It was the same skill that had planted bugs on the unsuspecting, removed vital information from pockets and swapped briefcases containing the means to unleash unimaginable horror.

But to these old women it was a Sunday afternoon’s entertainment.

Napoleon lowered himself slowly onto the sofa, closing his eyes as he fought the sickening swell of pain that burned through him. A gentle hand brushed his unruly hair from his forehand; it had proven impossible to apply his usual hair product these last few days and to his chagrin his hair had reverted back to his natural curl.

“I’ll get you one of your pain pills,” Lobelia quietly said as she draped a blanket over his legs and carefully tucked it around him.

“No, I’ll be alright in a moment,” he gritted out.

“That doesn’t work for Illya and it certainly isn’t going to work for you. Your body can’t heal if it’s spending all it’s time fighting pain.” He opened his eyes and looked into a pair of concerned brown eyes.

“I’m okay,” he croaked out hoarsely. He had a sudden overwhelming urge to reassure Lobelia, to remove the worry from her eyes. Worry for him. He really had no idea how to deal with it.

“You will be, sweetie,” Lobelia replied. “You just rest and I’ll get you your medication and something to eat. Then after you’ve had a nap you can have three fairy cakes.” She smiled, brushing a hand softly against his cheek.

Napoleon closed his eyes as Lobelia moved away and felt himself start to relax, the pain becoming more manageable.

He’d told Peril only yesterday that the old women were witches that had bewitched the Russian.  Peril, rather surprisingly had just smiled and nodded in agreement. “Is good,” he’d replied. “I like it. You will like it too,” he’d added. Napoleon had scoffed at such an idea.

With the childhood and treatment he’d received at the hands of his government it had been no revelation that Peril, starved of love and affection, would have reacted to the women as he had.

But Peril was right; Napoleon was starting to enjoy the attention. There were no strings attached, the women wanted nothing from him. He was simply Napoleon, for all his faults.

They treated him as if … as if he were worthy of their time and affection.

It was going to take some time to get used to.


End file.
